A drizzling rain had begun to fall. I was wet and chilled to the bone.
I had just left the free ward of a hospital, where I had been taken
when ill with the flu. It was good to be home again! Even though what I
called home were but the dim, narrow halls of a lodging-house. With a
sigh of relief, I dropped my suitcase in the vestibule.
As the door swung open, the landlady met me with: “Your room is taken.
Your things are in the cellar.”
“My room?” I stammered, white with fear.
“Oh no--please, Mrs. Pelz!”
“I got a chance to rent your room at such a good price, I couldn’t
afford to hold it.”
“But you promised to keep it for me while I was away. And I paid you
for it----”
“The landlord raised me my rent and I got to get it out from the
roomers,” she defended. “I got four hungry mouths to feed----”
“But maybe I would have paid you a little more,” I pleaded. “If you had
only told me. I have to go back to work to-day. How can I get another
room at a moment’s notice?”
“We all got to look out for ourselves. I am getting more than twice as
much as you paid me from this new lodger,” she finished triumphantly.
“And no housekeeping privileges.”
“You must give me time!” My voice rose into a shriek. “You can’t put
a girl out into the street at a moment’s notice. There are laws in
America----”
“There are no laws for roomers.”
“No law for roomers?” All my weakness and helplessness rushed out of me
in a fury of rebellion. “No law for roomers?”
“I could have put your things out in the street when your week was up.
But being you were sick, I was kind enough to keep them in the cellar.
But your room is taken,” she said with finality. “I got to let my rooms
to them as pay the most. I got to feed my own children first. I can’t
carry the whole world on my back.”
I tried to speak. But no voice came to my lips. I felt struck with
a club on the head. I could only stare at her. And I must have been
staring for some time without seeing her, for I had not noticed she had
gone till I heard a voice from the upper stairs, “Are you still here?”
“Oh--yes--yes--I--I--am--going--go-ing.” I tried to rouse my stunned
senses, which seemed struck to the earth.
“There’s no money in letting rooms to girls,” my landlady continued,
as she came down to open the door for me. “They’re always cooking, or
washing, or ironing and using out my gas. This new roomer I never hear
nor see except in the morning when he goes to work and at night when he
comes to sleep.”
I staggered out in a bewildered daze. I leaned against the cold iron
lamp-post. It seemed so kind, so warm. Even the chill, drizzling rain
beating on my face was almost human. Slowly, my numbed brain began to
recollect where I was. Where should I turn? To whom? I faced an endless
maze of endless streets. All about me strangers--seas of jostling
strangers. I was alone--shelterless!
All that I had suffered in lodging-houses rushed over me. I had never
really lived or breathed like a free, human being. My closed door
assured me no privacy. I lived in constant dread of any moment being
pounced upon by my landlady for daring to be alive. I dared not hang
out my clothes on a line in the fresh air. I was forced to wash and dry
them stealthily, at night, over chairs and on my trunk. I was under
the same restraint when I did my simple cooking although I paid dearly
for the gas I used.
This ceaseless strain of don’t move here and don’t step there was far
from my idea of home. But still it was shelter from the streets. I had
almost become used to it. I had almost learned not to be crushed by it.
Now, I was shut out--kicked out like a homeless dog.
All thought of reporting at my office left my mind. I walked and
walked, driven by despair. Tears pressed in my throat, but my eyes were
dry as sand.
I tried to struggle out of my depression. I looked through the
furnished room sections of the city. There were no cheap rooms to be
had. The prices asked for the few left were ten, twelve and fifteen
dollars a week.
I earn twenty-five dollars a week as a stenographer. I am compelled to
dress neatly to hold down my job. And with clothes and food so high,
how could I possibly pay more than one-third of my salary for rent?
In my darkness I saw a light--a vision of the settlement. As an
immigrant I had joined one of the social clubs there, and I remembered
there was a residence somewhere in that building for the workers.
Surely they would take me in till I had found a place to live.
“I’m in such trouble!” I stammered, as I entered the office of the head
resident. “My landlady put me out because I couldn’t pay the raise in
rent.”
“The housing problem is appalling,” Miss Ward agreed with her usual
professional friendliness. “I wish I could let you stay with us, my
child, but our place is only for social workers.”
“Where should I go?” I struggled to keep back my tears. “I’m so
terribly alone.”
“Now--now, dear child,” Miss Ward patted my shoulder encouragingly.
“You mustn’t give way like that. Of course, I’ll give you the addresses
of mothers of our neighbourhood.”
One swift glance at the calm, well-fed face and I felt instantly that
Miss Ward had never known the terror of homelessness.
“You know, dear, I want to help you all I can,” smiled Miss Ward,
trying to be kind, “and I’m always glad when my girls come to me.”
“What was the use of my coming to you?” I was in no mood for her
make-believe settlement smile. “If you don’t take me in, aren’t you
pushing me in the street--joining hands with my landlady?”
“Why--my dear!” The mask of smiling kindness dropped from Miss Ward’s
face. Her voice cooled. “Surely you will find a room in this long list
of addresses I am giving you.”
I went to a dozen places. It was the same everywhere. No rooms were to
be had at the price I could afford.
Crushed again and again, the habit of hope still asserted itself. I
suddenly remembered there was one person from whom I was almost sure
of getting help--an American woman who had befriended me while still
an immigrant in the factory. Her money had made it possible for me to
take up the stenographic course. Full of renewed hope, I sped along the
streets. My buoyant faith ever expectant could think of one outcome
only.
Mrs. Olney had just finished dictating to her secretary, when the maid
ushered me into the luxurious library.
“How good it is to see you! What can I do for you?” The touch of Mrs.
Olney’s fine hand, the sound of her lovely voice was like the warming
breath of sunshine to a frozen thing. A choking came in my throat.
Tears blinded me.
“If it wasn’t a case of life and death, I wouldn’t have bothered you so
early in the morning.”
“What’s the trouble, my child?” Mrs. Olney was all concern.
“I can’t stand it any longer! Get me a place to live!” And I told her
of my experiences with my landlady and my hopeless room-hunting.
“I have many young friends who are in just your plight,” Mrs. Olney
consoled. “And I’m sending them all to the Better Housing Bureau.”
I felt as though a powerful lamp went out suddenly within my soul. A
sharp chill seized me. The chasm that divides those who have and those
who have not yawned between us. The face I had loved and worshipped
receded and grew dim under my searching gaze.
Here was a childless woman with a houseful of rooms to herself.
Here was a philanthropist who gave thousands of dollars to help the
poor. And here I tried to tell her that I was driven out into the
street--shelterless. And her answer to my aching need was, “The Better
Housing Bureau.”
Again I turned to the unfeeling glare of the streets. A terrible
loneliness bled in my heart. Such tearing, grinding pain was dragging
me to the earth! I could barely hold myself up on my feet. “Ach! Only
for a room to rest!” And I staggered like a dizzy drunkard to the
Better Housing Bureau.
At the waiting-room I paused in breathless admiration. The soft greys
and blues of the walls and hangings, the deep-seated divans, the
flowers scattered in effective profusion, soothed and rested me like
silent music. Even the smoothly fitting gown of the housing specialist
seemed almost part of the colour scheme.
As I approached the mahogany desk I felt shabby--uncomfortable in
this flawless atmosphere, but I managed somehow to tell of my need. I
had no sooner explained the kind of room I could afford than the lady
requested the twenty-five cents registration fee.
“I want to see the room first,” I demanded.
“All our applicants pay in advance.”
“I have only a two-dollar bill, and I don’t get my pay till Monday.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I’ll change it,” she offered obligingly. And she
took my one remaining bill.
“Where were you born? What is your religion?”
“I came for a room and not to be inquisitioned,” I retorted.
“We are compelled to keep statistics of all our applicants.”
Resentfully, I gave her the desired information, and with the addresses
she had given me I recommenced my search. At the end of another
futile hour of room-hunting there was added to the twenty-five cents
registration fee an expense of fifteen cents for car fare. And I was
still homeless.
I had been expecting to hear from my sister who had married a
prosperous merchant and whom I hadn’t seen for years. In my agitation
I had forgotten to ask for my mail, and I went back to see about it. A
telegram had come, stating my sister was staying at the Astor and I was
to meet her there for lunch.
I hastened to her. For although she was now rich and comfortable, I
felt that after all she was my sister and she would help me out.
“How shabby you look!” She cast a disapproving glance at me from head
to foot. “Couldn’t you dress decently to meet me, when you knew I was
staying at this fashionable hotel?”